Sunday, September 30

Jimmy and I enjoyed a night at the theatah last night, because we are urban sophisticates who sometimes find something we both want to do on the same night. I recently discovered Dina Martina thanks to my secret conservative extra-marital boyfriend Andrew Sullivan and his blog. Andrew started featuring Ms. Martina on his web series Ask [Someone] Anything, in which he gets a prominent person--usually a political or cultural pundit--to sit down and field questions from readers. Dina Martina is a nice "lady" singer Andrew loves who performs all summer in Provincetown, where he summers like a big old gaywad, and so when she landed in NYC to do a stint of shows, he asked her to sit and preview her show/field questions from the unwashed Internet. It was her insightful and edumacational answers that convinced me that Jimmy and I could not spend our Sunday night doing anything more meaningful than basking in the glamor and clammy glow of La Martina.

She did all sorts of stuff from the great American songbook, from "Genius of Love" by the Tom Tom Club to "Legal Tender" by the B-52s, from the theme song from "The Love Boat" to a song for children that she'd written on a crumpled up piece of notebook paper she appeared to have found in a public toilet. It was, as Mitt Romney might say, "marvelous." She's on her way to London, so London peeps, she's playing at the Soho Theater from October 23 to November 3, get your tickets, it's good clean American comedy, like the Osmonds but so much better.

Jimmy darted out before I could force him to take my picture with her, but that's okay because I just took one myself, minus me, plus a nice woman with electric red hair.

Friday, September 28

This mannequin won't leave me alone, I swear to God. Every day I walk past her on my way to Sixth Avenue to get a coffee or an Atkins bar or an apple or a hit of acid, and there she is, dressed in her sexy skivvies 'n chains 'n leather wristband thingies, giving me that come hither look. As if. Come on, mannequin, you've been around the block. Surely you know you are barking up the wrong tree. I don't even like wristbands! And how do you stand like that in that position day after day after day? It's not natural, mannequin, to put your arms and hands in that position for long stretches of time. Who taught you to do that, Anna Wintour? Give yourself a break and sit down for a while or something.

In conclusion, while I admire your confidence and your swagger and your dead, dead eyes, you've got to just give it up and start focusing on those who will be more receptive to your message. Because let's face it, unless you've got a hot gay surfer friend behind that curtain, I'm just not interested, okay?

Wait, you do? And his name is Chad? Hold on, let me put my wristband on.

Well this is kind of a bummer. Turns out I was this close to recently running into potato-faced misanthrope Morrissey at the Strand bookstore here in NYC. As reported by Queerty, Mozzer was apparently minding his business and perusing photography books when an elderly woman collapsed near him and he leapt to her aid like the SuperVeganMan that he is. The takeaway from this story is, of course, that I was at the Strand that day, too. Mozzface left soon after the incident because he's so sensitive and camera shy, which means that if it hadn't been for this selfish old lady I might have had an opportunity to sneak up and slap him on the arse with a copy of the Picture of Dorian Gray, which would inevitably have prompted him to ask me out to his favorite vegan eatery, probably called Grass or something.

I WANT TO EAT AT GRASS WITH MORRISSEY SOMEBODY MAKE THAT HAPPEN!

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wa21955

Thursday, September 27

Okay, I didn't get a great picture of this person because he (I'm going to just assume it was a dude) wouldn't freaking stand still for longer than a millisecond, but the sign he's holding says "I AM MITT ROMNEY". So the question becomes: "B'scuze me?" Or maybe just plain old "Huh?"

Now, we all know I'm not always the sharpest tool in the tool container, but am I missing something? If this is satire, what is being satirized? Filthy rich plutocrats who secretly love wearing red spandex, look fake pregnant, and wear spooky serial killer masks? I'm confused by it.

When I first approached this person to snap a photo, he stroppily held out his hand and shook his head as if to say, "Uh-uh, you want a shot, put a dollar in the pot" or some such. When I wasn't immediately forthcoming with cash, the guy turned around so as to ruin my picture, then held up his sign toward the oncoming traffic on 34th Street, apparently hopeful that a passing car or taxicab would pony up some sweet dosh for some sort of explanation of this nonsense. This is not how capitalism works, amiright?

Or maybe it is, I don't know, I'm poor, gimme some money for writing this dumb blog post.

Tuesday, September 18

Sometimes when you get off the F train at 14th Street you are simply forced to turn off your iPod because otherwise you are a jackass who misses out on a beautiful little number performed by a dude with a piano hanging around his neck. And you would also miss out on a young lady with an umbrella passing by, stopping, and joining in for a few gorgeous seconds.

Of course, sometimes a train announcement interrupts your moment of zen, but never mind, the music will still be there when it's over.

Friday, September 14

Everyone knows that Wonkette is the single best source of news about political idiots, snowbilly grifters, and buttsecks jokes. They have also twice linked to this here blog because SeeTimBlog is the single best source of news about angry teabagger illiterates and how best to talk to your gay baby about awful breeders. So I was thrilled when I saw that editrix Rebecca Schoenkopf--who is in the midst of a little RNC- and DNC-inspired jaunt along the east coast, during which she's taken in Tampa, Charlotte, Philly, and maybe some other places who cares--was going to be stopping by Rudy's Bar in Hell's Kitchen here in NYC in order to meet her public and buy us pitchers of beer.

I tried to rope in a friend or two to accompany me but got no takers (thanks, NYC Facebook friends, I'm unfriending ALL OF YOU), so I had to show up by myself. I got a beer and made my way to the back yard space where the shindig was happening. On the far wall a giant screen was showing the game. (Which game? The baseball game. Which baseball game? The one that was last night.) I stood on my own for a while pretending to watch this "the game" and trying to see if there was anyone who looked semi-approachable that I might beg to talk to me. Then I saw Rebecca talking to some folks in the center of the space. I figured if I was just going to walk up and interrupt someone's conversation it might as well be hers.

So I stepped down and squeezed into her general area. Then I just stood there watching the folks around her talking, waiting for my moment to strike. In the mean time I introduced myself to a tall gentleman next to me and asked him if he was with Wonkette.

"Blowjobz1258," he said.

"I don't know what that is," I replied. Then I realized: he was introducing himself by his Wonkette commenter moniker.

"Are you on Wonkette?" he asked incredulously.

"Oh, no, I mean, I read it religiously, but I don't comment."

He was done with me by this point, pretty much, getting on his phone and pretending to text as he stepped away. I turned around and there was a tiny man standing behind me who had just come down the stairs. He looked up at me and said hello. I shook his hand and introduced myself.

"Hi Tim, I'm Zaltar," he said with an indeterminable accent.

"Zaltar? That's your name? Your real name?"

"Yes," he said. "Zaltar. It's Turkish." (I think he said Turkish, he may have said Klingon.)

"Wow, you do realize that's pretty much the best name ever, right?"

"Yes, I do."

At that moment, I saw Rebecca turn away from the older gentleman she'd been talking to for a few minutes. Here was my chance. Her eyes met mine, she smiled, and I introduced myself. She was nice! I told her that I'm SURE she doesn't remember but that she linked to this blog a while back when I tried to start a meme based on John Derbyshire's hilariously racist riff on The Talk that black parents have to have with their sons about living in a white world, which we all learned about in the wake of the Trayvon Martin shooting. (Mine was the gay version of The Talk. The meme did not take, sad face.) She said she remembered, that it was the first post of the morning and that she remembers just being really lazy and block quoting me and then linking to my post. I thanked her for doing it and told her that was just fine because click-through are click-throughs, amiright?

There was a guy standing next to her holding what looked like a Jack on the rocks and who looked about twelve years old. Since I'd already made it with Rebecca I thought I'd go ahead and throw caution to the wind and insert myself into his life, too.

"Hi I'm Tim, what's your name?"

"Jack."

"Jack. Jack Stuff?!"

"Stuef, but yeah."

That's right, it was Jack Stuef, my favorite ever Wonkette writer, dearly departed. I showered him with flattery, because I'm such a starf*cker.

"I was devastated when you left," I told him.

"Uh, really?" he said. He was not buying my schtick at all.

"Yeah. Well, okay, I might be overstating it. I was incredibly sad for days and thought I might never be able to read the Internet again."

Soon after this he excused himself to get another drink and get as far away from me as the venue would allow. Oh look, there's blurry Rebecca (my camera phone had had a few drinks by this point).

I then moved on to take over someone else's life and found two young folks off to the side who had friendly yet sarcastic faces that I felt really drawn to. They were Mwaanza and Lillie and they were both born in 1990, isn't that weird? I didn't realize people could be born after the eighties, but whatever. Here's a great picture of them.

We talked about what irritates us about everything for the rest of the night, the end.

In conclusion, this place had free hot dogs. Free hot dogs! Communism is delicious.

UPDATE:

A hawt photo of yours truly is posted over at Wonkette, feast on it below and check out other nonblurry photos here.

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wa21955

Wednesday, September 12

This just made my heart all squooshy when I got off the F train today at 6th Avenue. It was a li'l Japanese theremin-maker just stone cold standing there and conjuring sounds like a dang sorcerer's apprentice or something. Doesn't it make you feel boring and useless that you can only play musical instruments that already exist in time and space and that have to be plucked or picked or bowed or blown and that can't just be gestured at? Yes it does, but there are other reasons you are boring and useless, so don't worry too much about it.